Metaphorical Menstruation
by DrWorm
Summary: How do you handle the pain? Lance/Pietro slash. Rated for language, sexuality, and gore. Includes in-depth examination of self-mutilation.


When I first started cutting myself, it was on my inner thighs Albert L. Ingram, Ph.D. Albert L. Ingram, Ph.D. 4 86 2001-11-05T02:29:00Z 2001-11-09T02:33:00Z 2 1028 5861 Great Lakes Instructional Design and Evaluation 48 11 7197 9.2720 

This took… oh… an hour to write. Therefore I won't be surprised if I come back to it later and go "It sucks!"

Whatever.

Metaphorical Menstruation

When I first started cutting myself, it was on my inner thighs. I don't know why. Every time I did it, it felt like I was spreading my legs for sex. Hah. Making love to a razorblade, cold and thankless steel that nipped at my soft white flesh. Then the blood would come, thick and hot and dark, trickling down the blank canvas of my skin like a girl's menstrual blood.

Did you know that, in some cultures, when a boy reaches puberty they slit open the underside of his penis in a ceremony designed to parallel menstruation in females? Fascinating, isn't it? For them it meant a new beginning, a new stage of life. It meant sexual maturity and bodily metamorphosis. 

All the pain means for me is pain. A way to punish my disgusting body and the wayward gift it has given me. A way to punish myself, because I hate myself. I loathe myself. And I hate the way the slow cuts seem to go on forever. For a normal human it would seem like a two-second motion, a quick, clean slice. To me, it is an eternity.

As I sit there, alone and sad on the edge of the bathtub, I hack at myself to make the pain go away. And the blood pools on the white porcelain, it drips, it splatters, it makes its rivers down my shaking legs. And I cry. I cry, thighs spread wide, like a whore waiting for her customers.

And I can't believe what my life has come to. 

The first time I tried it I could barely press the razor into my filthy, animal hide. The pain was too great; I was in agony from only the slightest pricks. I cried so much that night that I forced myself to vomit, over and over again. It hurt. I thought I was going to die. I thought I would die, but I was too afraid to finish it by myself. How brave am I? I wanted some deus ex machina to swoop down at the last minute and take care of the deed. 

Needless to say, it didn't happen. I awoke the next morning, alive and exhausted, with thin cuts on my wrists. It was embarrassing. I could actually feel people's eyes on me, on the marks, as I went about my day. I felt so self-conscious. I felt like they all knew what I knew. 

So the next night I cut my thighs where I thought no one would ever see. I cut and cut and cut; this time it made me feel better. I sat there, hands drenched with my own crimson, copper-smelling blood and I _laughed._ I laughed and laughed and laughed.

Nothingness. It was like being on autopilot. The days actually seemed to get longer, if that's really possible. It seemed like every moment I was waiting to go back to the bathroom, go back to the dankness and the squalor and the awful, bloody mess. I just wanted to cut myself more and more. I wanted to make my cuts deep; I wanted to show my willingness. 

School became nearly unbearable. I knew I always had problems sitting still. But now it was more than that. It was the aching, constant waiting, and the eternal reminder whenever I pressed my legs together. _Got to cut, got to cut, got to cut…_

Maybe…maybe other people would have worried about sex. I never did. Who'd want to fuck me? Me, a piece of trash that deserves to be dead. The cuts were in such a conspicuous place, should I ever have gone to bed with someone. I just… I never thought the opportunity would arise.

I never even masturbated it hurt so badly. 

Then one night, some night, some awful night in December, I was talking. Talking, jabbering into his ear. Stupid subjects, talking to look like I was interested, talking to seem normal. I sat next to him and I chattered. His hand touched my face. I kept talking.

Until he leaned in and kissed me. Then all I was able to do was melt like chocolate held in hot, little hands. I let him kiss me, let his hands run up and down my back and over my ass with purpose. I watched the hunger in his eyes and wondered whether he'd been thinking about doing this for long. He kissed me, twirled his tongue in mine, there in his tiny room. He kissed me, kissed me, kissed me, and began to take off my clothes.

And, to my surprise, I let him. I let him tug off my shirt, shivering slightly as cool air brushed my bare skin. He embraced me, cuddled me in his arms, made me warm again. God, it felt so good. It felt like love with purpose, something I never thought I'd see.

Then his hands went to my belt, undoing the buckle and deftly tugging it loose. Without words, I knew where he was going. I knew what was on his mind.

I knew how much I wanted it, and that was the most frightening part of all.

He unbuttoned my jeans and slid them down my thin legs. I was panting already, my mind scared and exhilarated all at once. Here I was, here was my adulthood, here was my transformation in a way I'd never thought possible. I was so ready for it that my stomach burned and my hips moved on their own, spurned by unfamiliar feelings of arousal. 

He nuzzled my inner thigh with his cheek, fingers curling around the elastic waistband of my underwear, preparing to tug it down and expose me completely.

Between seconds he stopped and lifted his cheek. I knew. In that instant, I knew that he'd seen. "Pietro," Inwardly, I groaned, "Pietro, what's this?" He spread my thighs farther apart, extending a finger to stroke one of the long, red scabs near the fabric of my briefs. He hissed as he got a good look at the scabs and the scars, the bruises and the redness. "What happened?"

I couldn't answer him. I didn't have an excuse, but I couldn't say that I wanted to hurt myself. There weren't any words dramatic or humble enough. 

"Pietro," he sounded choked up, liked he was frightened or saddened. Probably both. I felt guilty, so guilty, "Did you…?" The unspoken question was clear enough and, when his large, dark eyes looked up to me tinged with horror, I nodded.

"Oh god," His hands were shaking, heavy and reassuring against my skin. "Oh god, oh god, oh god." He stood up. "I didn't know, I never though you'd… why? Why, why, why?" He looked ready to burst into tears or hit me. 

"Lance," I shrunk back, nearly naked and vulnerable. Suddenly he seemed so large and powerful… why hadn't I ever seen it before? Because I never seriously thought he'd hurt me before. "Lance, please…"

There was a moment when I was afraid, truly afraid, and guilty, and so, so repentant. "I'm sorry," I whispered, "I'm sorry, Lance. I'm sorry."

Instantly he was on me, not smothering me or hurting me, but _hugging _me. Hugging me so tightly, as if he was afraid I'd escape or disappear. "Don't," he hissed fiercely in my ear, "Don't you ever do that again."

And I was crying tears of confusion and relief. I cried into his shoulder and he rocked me gently like a baby. It was so odd, so much more intimate than anything I'd ever experienced. I found myself realizing how much I'd been craving touch and human contact. It felt so right, so comfortable, that before long my eyelids were drooping. Emotional fatigue was taking over.

The last thing I saw before drifting to sleep was the long, white scar on the tanned forearm of my savior.

Metamorphosis. 


End file.
